Thanks to Tor, I'm on a roll! A little sideline for the tale with lots of explanations - at least I think so. :D
"Baso-papa, why did you call it the Grand Line?"
The ancient, garrulous, foul-mouthed story-teller paused briefly as he guzzled his mug of Ninjin's Pick-me-up Ale. He swallowed loudly, smacked his lips together, then swatted the pox-faced brat with his cane.
"Shaddup, ya mutie-cumshot," he growled, his 'good story' language slipping off faster than a whore's panties for 100 chips. "Shit like you wud'na even been born iffin yer mama'd learn'd ta swallow. D'ya want a story or not?"
The brat was dragged down into a glowing pile of street refuse by the other urchins and all his questions were beaten out of him. Baso spat approvingly and bit off another piece of mad-weed.
"'S nuff ya wastes o' sperm, geroff him. Cum'er, Traf, an' keep this old ghoul warm."
The sallow lad threw one last punch in the face of a crazed, alligator-skinned redhead kid in a fur coat before cuddling next to the old geezer. He flashed his middle finger - an archaic insult the greying ghoul had taught them - to another bony blond urchin as he enjoyed the dubious honor of getting a nibble of the hallucinogenic leaves.
"Lemme explain some things to ya young'uns," Baso-papa began again. "This fuckin' scab of rock we live on 's got mind-mires. Dem's places what's a little funny - they do things ta yer thoughts. People's what's gone through 'em don't come out too right in the head. They sees things they shud'na - lives they shud'na seen."
"Skies?" Bazil asked with unusual interest, actually pausing in the middle of turning a trick. The patron snarled and went to cuff the lad, but Bazil's surly half-sister, Bonnee, neatly punched the fat pederast in the jewels before knifing him in the belly. She piped up as she looted the dying man's pockets.
"Grasses?"
"Forestsss?" Drakex snorted, the lizard-like lad licking his lips as he and Cappon sharing a line of poppyseed powder.
"Na, bet it'd be food," the barrel-shaped boy bantered before Apu elbowed him, shoving him aside for a hit off the line.
"Music!" the gangly boy laughed, a high, crazed sound, only being held down from runnin' into the street by the half-mutie,Urug.
Baso-papa got a wistful look in his good eye - the other one'd filmed over decades ago.
"Oceans," the ghoul whispered dramatically, his hands thrown out in an expansive, all-consuming motion that drenched Child and Rellik as they grinned and played with a pair of rusted knives. "More pure salt water than all of us can piss in in a lifetime, and nothin' to stop ya. Islands, green an' white an' red an' all sortsa colours what ain't in a rock. Trees an' grass an' food, so much food, an' people what's not got to fight fer it mos'n time."
The children's eyes were wide with amazement, and they gathered around the ghoul's prominently bony knees. His sharp, cracked teeth were bared in the grotesque imitation of a grin, his whole visage shining eerily as his blood-red drink spilled again, thick and heavy over the children's upturned faces.
"What's the catch?" Traf asked warily, licking the salty, red liquor off his cheek. The taste reminded him of the bloody, raw, pig-rat liver he ate on his 10th birthday, a rare treat from the other urchins.
"The catch?" Baso-papa echoed. "Good boy, smart boy. Baso-papa won't bite ya no more tonight. Listen ta Traffie-boy, dearies. There's always a catch."
The ghoul shrank back down to his normal, wizened size. Sighing loudly, he motioned to Ninjin for a refill. The bartender grimaced, but nodded anyway.
"The catch, ya young'uns, is simple," Baso-papa gasped after he gulped down Ninjin's 'elixir of youth' as the zombie called it. "You can fall in, or you can fall through."
"Fall through?" Urug woofed slowly, "That don' make na sense, Baso-papa."
In the dim light of the bar, the ghoul's good eye took a peculiarly alive sheen.
"Stupid boy. Maybes you shud'na talk when people's ain't done yet. Come ta dinner with me tonight an' I'll learn ya the difference."
Urug winced and the others drew back from him. The bulky boy would have to find the old ghoul a good, lively dinner if he didn't want to feel those teeth himself.
"Listen ta me, dearies. Mind-mires 's called lotsa names - silly swamps, thinnings, fey fens - they mean the same thing. Doorways."
Author says:
Let's see how observant you folks are. Can you connect the dots yet? Who's who? What's what?